


Moth to a Flame

by necronism



Category: He Never Died (2015)
Genre: (there's nothing I can do about the cannibalism okay? It's literally canon.), Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Gen, M/M, Slow Build, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 20:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17029278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necronism/pseuds/necronism
Summary: Nineteen years ago, Jack slipped up. Nineteen years later, he's bound to do it again. However, it's hard to find someone who excepts you when you're a blood-thirsty beast who may not enjoy their voracious (no pun intended) appetite, but cannot deny it. Especially when it has been literally bestowed on him by God.





	Moth to a Flame

Each and every morning, he awoke with a hunger. It was one unmatched to what anyone else could consider a usual fast to be broken. Most days, it felt like a void, deep in his gut that usual foods couldn’t stifle. The fridge in his small apartment, which would be right beside his bed if there wasn’t a dividing wall between the rooms to give a hint of a living space, was often stocked full of various fruits and vegetables. Sour, bitter, whatever could make the most impact on his tongue to give the impression of a flavor. It all passed quickly, leaving his mouth dry, tongue curled downward against his lower canines.

Teeth that had spent hundreds of years growing sharp from tearing through hides, grating against bones. The most feral episodes of his appetite were met with biting, fighting, tearing, and breaking off of limbs without the proper tools. Usually, it would be enough no matter the skill of the kill. So long as there was someone desperate and foolish enough to follow and otherwise harmless man deep into the woods, or into an alley where they could be heard. Pimps, pushers, and pedophiles alive, they were all scum of the earth and easy to weed out.

Yet, the Hunger would _never_ be satisfied.

The city could be stripped clean of their problems and he’d have to go out searching, digging his claws into the rumors of the next city over, the police reports that went unheeded; the missing children and the paper trails that led him to the doorsteps of the Unworthy. Suburban neighborhoods, from what he could remember, attracted the sort like flies. _Jack was the flypaper_ . _The flame fed by each moth that flew too close._

Each morning, he felt his jaws work themselves as if they had been wired shut prior to his awakening. His throat was sore. That beast Hunger once more tried to claw its way up out of his chest and mouth, sharp claws working as his teeth as he would tear in on any other given escapade. Sitting up in bed was the next step, which he needed both hands to do so, back rippling from the stiff sleep.

Dreams were few, mostly empty; a void he felt himself sinking into himself most nights. He would close his eyes and then drift briefly, before opening them again to resume the cycle of his existence. Breakfast consisted of something quick, usually a few sips from an orange juice container, a bite from an apple he later abandoned in the street somewhere. What spare time (of which he had plenty) there was, was spent in a diner, pushing food around a plate and waiting for the Man to disappear from his peripheral visions.

Most days, days such as these, he didn’t notice him until it was too late to be second-chancing mercy. It was easy to find the bad in people, to justify his own actions against them. Did it ever always define their true nature, such as robbing a liquor store, returning some money he had purposefully dropped to test them? No. Some humans were naturally selfish and ignorant of others, but some were inherently evil. No one was truly good.

That’s all he had to tell himself, day in and day out. Each day spent in the limbo of his routine, sometimes with the break of Bingo in the old chapel with the old folks who never bothered him. He looked about their age when he was in a relatively hostile mood, but his expressions were considerably ambiguous. The larger breaks from his routines included going out of his way to find an easily-bribed intern at a clinic (preferably one that stored their bio-hazardous waste for weekend pick-up) or lingering in the dark corners of bars to keep an eye out for someone particularly ruthless.

If that’s what you would consider anyone who drops a roofie in another patron’s drink.

The intents were always obvious. Not something he felt one way or another about emotionally, as those psychological impulses had long since abandoned him - but he knew between right and wrong, despite how clouded his own judgement had been in the past. He knew which side to be on to have the most gain, the most pull. It wasn’t men, but it was hardly ever a woman. Not that he had a specific profile or _taste_. Whoever did it, did it.

No one ever noticed him back here, a relatively older man with a beer in one hand, the cap still screwed on tight, the collar of his jacket askew and pulled up higher on one side. His white hair set him out from the usual young crowd, his refusal to talk to anyone only isolating him further. Perhaps it was the aura he gave off, maybe it was his disconnected sare, but something told others to avoid him - and they did.

The Hunger had been gnawing at him all day, no letting him keep down the pancakes that had been so generously made for him at the diner. As a recurring customer, they seemed to assume he enjoyed the food as well as the staff, despite what little he had to say about his day. _Woke up, came here. Might come back later_.

He felt at his jaw, his tightening throat as he scanned the room, counting the glasses and coasters along the bar counter. Hands touched, turned glasses, lifted away and left them unattended. All he needed was one sure thing, an unattended glass - the perfect someone who glanced around the room once, then again. A slim figure who reached into his pocket, muttering to himself something he wasn’t able to make out from across the room - but it was his chance, his move. _Check mate_.

In a single breath, he was across the room, ready to grab the man’s wrist and pull him out of view. Probably to the back alley where various cries for help and even screams went unanswered by the local bar-crawlers. For Toronto, they managed to have American values when it came to helping your fellow man. Before he could even reach out, someone was sitting down to take the glass. A blurred mess of black and curly hair.

Jack actually jumped, his fingers centimeters away from touching the man’s back that was now turned to him. Was it too late? His eyes flicked to the counter, finding the glass gone and - with it - the clouding whiskey. He cursed under his breath and pulled his hand back, only making eye contact with the assailant over the young man’s shoulder.

The Hunger churned in his gut, hooking a few claws into his ribcage.

The Hunger began climbing.

“You shouldn’t drink that,” he stated flatly.

The young man turned, and Jack saw that the glass was already drained. The young man swallowed hard, letting out an exasperatedly drunk chuckle. Dark, wide eyes hidden under the messy plume of curly brown - _black?_ \- hair. Either way, he looked young. Old enough to be drinking at a bar at eleven o’clock at night, but not old enough to be this other man’s date.

“Excuse me?”

It wasn’t asked in a rude manner, but then again… Jack was horrible at reading the room, letting along the tones of voices. Many fists had been thrown due to his flat, seemingly passive aggressive responses. His eyes flickered to the empty glass, the assailant, then the young man, his mouth opening.

“Hey, buddy- do you mind, you know, minding your own business?”

The “date” wore a fake smile, his eyes telling Jack much more than a simple suggestion.

_Fuck off_ , it said, and the Hunger hooked another claw in.

“You spiked his drink. Don’t you think I should let him know?” He glanced again to the glass. It was set down as the young man tried to wrap his head around that. “He has a half hour before any of the side effects begin to show. You could do the right thing and take him home.”

“You--” The young man wiped at his bottom lip. There was no drink left to throw in the other man’s face, but the glass itself was fine.

It made a heavy clunk against the date’s face, who immediately reached for his nose. The scent of blood hit Jack, who physically felt his pupils dilate. Was that even possible? The lights of the bar suddenly blinded him as he inhaled, reaching out to grab the man’s wrist once the other was out of the way. He stood, offended, staring up at Jack with frightened doe eyes.

They were… familiar.

He remembered the fear in his daughter’s own eyes. What was her name again? What had her name been? Jack hesitated to remember it, to connect these conflicting emotions to the task at hand. He wouldn’t let go, not giving up his meal. He didn’t have to explain himself anyway.

“Let go, you fuckin’ freak!”

Neither words nor fists ever stopped him. Even bullets weren’t enough to get him to change his mind. It had been a joke that his skull was thick enough to withstand almost anything, save the few migraines. His only response was a grunt as the man brought a fist to his temple, trying to ward him off as he was dragged off to the bathrooms and out the back exit. Everyone had turned their heads, assuming that whatever the guy did, he deserved what was coming for him.

“ _What the fuck, man?!_ ”

“Do you really want those to be your last words?” Jack said flatly, other hand coming up to grip the man’s throat. Of course, with his vice grip, not much else could be said. His eyes scanned over the man’s face, head tilting as he following the line of red down over his lips and chin, to his throat seen only through his parted fingers. His pulse was heavy under his palm, the Hunger insisting that he savor one of the few sensations he could even process in this old, mortal vessel.

 

The eerie dribbling of blood down the drains was almost a comfort to Jack. It reminded him of the nights and weekends it rained here in the city, causing a rift in his schedule that didn’t consist of waiting out the storms in order to visit his contacts. They were days he seemed to enjoy being reminded of how human he was, or at least could be when given the right circumstance.

It was smart of the city to invest in the alley drains, as the run-off sewage from dumpsters was better off gathering somewhere else than pooling behind bars and restaurants. In the light of the street lamps just outside of the alley, he was able to see his reflection rather briefly in the red stream that passed by the toes of his boots where he knelt. The Hunger usually chided him for wasted valuable resources, but was happy enough tonight to be devouring something more… _filling_.

Jack sniffed sharply, reaching up to wipe blood away from his nose and cheeks, making more of a mess than he realized. He licked the blood from his fingers. They never seemed to get any cleaner. The last of flesh, blood, even bone, blended together as something more than metallic - a flavor with an edge that satisfied something deep inside of him - something _primal_. For now, the Hunger would subside, cease its scolding and its demands for satisfaction; at least until the next fast. It wasn’t because he liked to, but because he had to, obey.

He turned a torn finger in his own before he brought the flesh to his teeth, stripping it from the bone as one might devour ribs. Ironically, the man’s chest cavity had been left intact, for the most part. A few heavy blows to his chest plate and the guy had caved in on himself, gasping for breath. Jack didn’t have time to torture, to make others suffer at the hands of their fate. The job was over and he would eat, briefly satiate the void inside of him. In order to leave, in order to _maintain_ order.

_Did he have a purpose? Did any of this? Did he truly want to keep going on this way?_

The more he tried to avoid Hunger, the more is wound berate him, tear him from the inside-out, but it would never let him die. They had too much work left on this miserable plane of existence. Work that always ended the same, crouching over some poor sod behind a diner, a dive bar, a police station, giving into an urge that drove him blindly.

The door behind him opened and Jack went rigid, back still turned. He was hunched over the body, what could be made of it, blocking direct view of it. With the poor lighting, the steady stream of blood could be mistaken for sewage run-off or even rainwater. He didn’t look over right away.

“ _I need to go home_ ,” a small voice instructed.

Jack glanced back, just enough to peek over the top of his collar without revealing the mess on his face, down his entire front. The young man’s words slurred slightly as he repeated himself, and he struggled to hold himself up in the doorway, cheeks wet with tears. Enough time had passed for the young man to feel the effects of the drugs, but not enough to completely take him out.

“ _Home_ ,” he whispered, and Jack felt something turn over in his chest.

He looked away, down at his meal - his mess.

He’d have to come back for the rest of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, any future acts of murder, cannibalism, or blood-drinking are purely for canon's sake. I am so sorry you have to deal with me trying to ship a Biblical monster with anyone other than the sake that it's so much fun, Jan.


End file.
